


It's Been A Long, Cold, Lonely Winter

by Worlds_Okayest_Goalie



Series: i carry your heart with me [2]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Introspection, Nightmares, Reckless Behavior, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:08:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22643098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Worlds_Okayest_Goalie/pseuds/Worlds_Okayest_Goalie
Summary: He didn’t think Martin was going to dance on Pete’s grave, but he’d hoped that the final severing of their increasingly-strained relationship would bring some relief. Instead, Martin seems to have given up all fight.
Series: i carry your heart with me [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1628809
Comments: 11
Kudos: 47





	It's Been A Long, Cold, Lonely Winter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [McSpot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/McSpot/gifts).



> There was some interest in finding out what was happening with Jonesy during the events of I'm So Much Older Than I Can Take so I wrote this up. Unlike the previous fic, this is written from an outside perspective on heartbreak and is therefore a bit darker. There are mentions of reckless and self-endangering behavior, so if that is a concern for you, please read carefully. That said, I never write fics without a happy-ish resolution, so don't fear that this will go completely off the deep end.

Brenden is scared. He started out merely concerned and then rapidly progressed through several stages of worry to arrive at his current state of panicked agitation. 

All things considered, until this point, he’s been quite measured in his response. 

*******

He starts by letting Martin pick the music on their commute. He figures that if his buddy is in a bad mood, some music might perk him up.

Martin shrugs and says, “I don’t care,” very quietly.

Martin is generally easygoing, but he’s usually not completely neutral. Brenden lets it go. If Martin isn’t going to object to his music, Brenden has no problem making a decision. Maybe it would relax Martin if he had one less decision to make.

It does not.

*******

Brenden zones out during tape review, watching Burnzie’s hideous jacket slowly come apart at the shoulder seam as he constantly shifts in his chair. Brenden comes back slowly, as the coaches switch gears and move to a few turnovers by the first line. Fuck the Oilers, honestly. You can’t be perfect and McDavid is always lurking like an orange nightmare.

He realizes he can’t see Martin in his usual spot between Deller and Cooch. He cranes his neck subtly until he sees Martin in the back. 

If Martin’s shoulders get any higher, his skull’s gonna end up occupying the same space as his stomach. Brenden’s seen goalies turtle into their gear, but he’s never seen a teammate try to turn themselves inside out in street clothes. He can’t exactly get up and demand answers while Coach is still talking, but he’d sure like to.

Somehow by the time Brenden stands, after tape, Martin’s vanished completely. He’s nowhere to be seen as they mill about and head out for practice.

He’s on the ice for practice, which is mildly reassuring. His mask stays down the whole time.

Brenden knows better than to try and have a real conversation during practice, especially with Burnzie in the mood to squash everyone. He gets plastered into the board four times before he finally dodges a check and lets Burnzie bounce off the glass on his own. It’s fun laughing at Burnzie falling on his ass until Burnzie gets back up and chases him down the ice. 

Brenden’s fully cooled down by the time Martin gets off the ice, but he’s often not far behind Deller. Brenden just slouches in his stall and waits for Martin to get his shit together to go. 

He waits for ages, his phone slowly dying. Finally, Martin shuffles in, Under Armour drenched in sweat. He doesn’t say anything as he strips slowly, heedlessly dropping his clothes on the floor before he goes to the showers.

He’s silent when he emerges and he doesn’t speak until Brenden’s pulled up to the curb in front of his house. 

“Thanks.”

Brenden watches him go, something nasty uncoiling in his stomach.

*******

Brenden invites Martin to lunch four times. Martin is always busy with something.

He stops asking. He shows up to Martin’s door with takeout. His smile is not forced, but perhaps it is a little strained by the time Martin opens the door. “Brought Mexican,” he says cheerily, shouldering his way inside without an invitation. 

Martin follows him, looking slightly bemused. “Did we have plans?”

“What, I have to schedule with your secretary before I drop by?” He feigns hurt, just to hide his real concerns.

“No, of course not.” Martin unpacks the paper bag Brenden hands him. The corners of his mouth curl up slightly as he peeks in to find his burrito. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, just eat your burrito and prepare to lose at Smash Bros.”

“Lose?” Martin shoves at him lightly as they sit at the table.

“I’m just that good.” Brenden beams.

Martin rolls his eyes and digs into his food. He shares the last of his chips and guac in an act of true friendship, though Brenden informs him that it will not save him from brutal defeat.

They play enough rounds that Brenden actually can’t tell who’s winning. By the time he leaves, he’s only eked out one laugh from Martin, but it’s something.

*******

Martin leaves his socks in Brenden’s car after a game. Brenden finds them when he’s cleaning out his car for once. He also unearths a spare set of skate laces (neat), half a bag of sunflower seeds(confusing), and a trillion crumpled receipts (useless).

The socks are definitely not freshly laundered, so Brenden picks them up rather gingerly. They’re still faintly damp, which is something Brenden barely tolerates in his own workout clothes. It’s truly disgusting, but Brenden just throws them into the wash with everything else. It’s not like he smells of roses.

He hands the rolled ball of socks to Martin the next time they carpool, though they’re going to Eddie’s place, not the rink. Their hands brush, for a moment, and Brenden has a bizarre swooping sensation in his stomach. He’s intensely grateful that they’re parked, not on the road. Martin stares at him as he tries to recover, unspoken questions flitting behind those dark eyes. 

Brenden shakes his head, puts the car in gear, and gets on the road. He doesn’t want to think about it too hard, so he doesn’t. He doesn’t look too closely, doesn’t complicate the uncomplicated.

*******

They’re out as a team after a win, the first in quite some time. Martin’s not going to be starting a lot of games, Brenden knows. Not with how hot Deller’s been and not with the change in regime. 

He didn’t think Martin was going to dance on Pete’s grave, but he’d hoped that the final severing of their increasingly-strained relationship would bring some relief. Instead, Martin seems to have given up all fight. 

Brenden decides he’ll go get another round, clasps Martin’s wrist to ask him if he wants anything. He leans in to shout over the heavy bass and feels a new sensation stop him cold. It undulates slickly, a wave-form impression at the back of his throat making him nauseated.

There’s something wrong with Martin. Some sickness in him. Brenden’s not one to dwell on things and he certainly hasn’t spent much time contemplating his natural aptitude scores for heart magic. Unfortunately, even he can’t deny that the awakening of long-dormant instincts suggests that something is terribly wrong. As a 3, he can’t actually influence hearts actively or diagnose anything, but he’s about six times as sensitive to minor fluctuations as the average person.

He fights his instinct and holds on tighter. “Need anything?”

Martin shakes his head and Brenden waits for a moment. This isn’t the time or place for a conversation, so he walks away to get a refill. When he gets back, Martin’s space in the booth is empty.

***

Logan is a damn catastrophe. Brenden misses the lion’s share of it because he decided to be sensible and take a proper vacation down the coast. Hearst Castle is a pretty decent tourist trap and literally no one recognizes him strolling along the coastline in Cambria. The pines remind him oddly of home, of where he grew up, of the hours he spent as a child running around in the cold.

He wastes a day fucking around near the tide pools. He realizes there’s a secondary rhythm to his heart fairly early in the day, before it’s truly hot on the rocks. Jumbo’s call at lunch confirms his suspicions. He’s the owner of a fragment of Cooch’s heart. 

They tell him not to hurry back, which is obviously stupid. He starts the long drive home, checking out a day early from the cute inn he’d been staying at. He doesn’t pay too much attention on the way home, except for a brief stop in Solvang because he sees some weird birds and needs to confirm he’s not hallucinating ostriches in the middle of California. He picks up lunch there before he gets back on the road.

He pulls off to a lookout on the 9, having been forced into a long detour by accidents on 101 and 17. Google still claims this is the fastest way home. He gets out to stretch his legs, tired of being cramped in his car for hours. 

The sun is setting on the valley floor below, but the redwoods are still golden in the fading light. He sits on a large log, watching the shadows elongate, reaching closer. He takes out the little piece of Logan’s heart he has to safeguard. He hefts it in his hand, vaguely rectangular and sharp, not terribly heavy to carry; for a brief, mad moment, he wants to hurl it over the edge, skip it like a stone in the pools of sunlight far below. Instead, he grips it too tightly, feels his skin give way sharply to a honed point. He opens his hand, breath hitching, to see twin pinpricks of blood welling up.

There’s a ringing in his ears as he looks at the desecrating smear of red along the edges of the fragment. It disappears smoothly, like water down a drain. The shard pulses once and then he’s suddenly conscious of the cold wind picking up as night falls. He puts it away carefully, feeling uneasy and avoiding looking too closely at his hand. 

He digs in the glove compartment and manages to come up with an ancient pair of tissues to fold against his hand. Having an automatic transmission makes it easier to drive with one hand, no gear shift to press his aching hand against. The drive home feels urgent, the impending darkness chasing him. 

*******

He sleeps heavily. He does not dream. He only stirs when sunlight slices through his room.

He rises as though from a thick fog, fighting his way back to wakefulness. His eyes feel gritty and, though he knows it’s a bad idea, he rubs at them. As he puts his hands down, he catches sight of his hand. There are stray bits of tissue stuck to the dark scabs on his hand, but it’s not hurting too badly. He’ll call Frankie once he’s fully awake. 

He turns on the coffee machine and goes to take a quick shower. The water is pleasantly warm and the steam dulls the mild headache he woke up with. He soaps up and half-heartedly washes his hair. He’s rinsing the soap off his arm, turning it to get the underside, when he sees his hand again. The torn pieces of tissue have long been washed away, but it seems to have also washed away the scab. He examines it more closely, noting the pale scars that catch the light. When he clenches that hand, he can still feel the slight twinge, but it looks otherwise healed.

He dries himself as quickly as he can and hunts down his phone. Calling Frankie has leapfrogged all his other priorities, though he spares a sad glance for the coffee machine.

Frankie picks up on the first ring. “Is this urgent?” he asks gruffly.

“Yes.” It absolutely is.

“What’s going on?”

“You know how I have a piece of Cooch’s heart?” Brenden waits for Frankie to grunt in agreement. “Well I was holding it and then I accidentally cut myself and the blood disappeared--”

“What?!”

“No, that was weird, but it got weirder. I woke up and the cut was gone too!”

“Stay put,” Frankie growls. “I’m coming over.” He hangs up without waiting for confirmation.

Brenden stares at his phone, startled.

Frankie shows up a reasonable amount of time later, long enough for Brenden to actually drink his cup of coffee. He can’t hold it with the injured hand because the heat on the sensitive skin is uncomfortable.

Frankie bangs on his door loud enough to wake the dead and hurries inside without taking off his shoes. Brenden would say something, but Frankie’s holding his hand out imperiously for Brenden’s. He examines it closely, pokes the scar hard enough that Brenden hisses and tries to pull away. 

“Hey!”

“How long ago did you get cut?”

“At least twelve hours?”

“Okay.” Frankie looks thoughtful. “Lemme see your heart.”

Brenden sets down his coffee finally and carefully shows Frankie his heart. It looks good, if Brenden does say so himself. He’s got a solid routine for taking care of it and it shows. Frankie’s hum of approval confirms it.

“Well, not as bad as it could be.” He hands Brenden’s heart back. “Seems like you probably just lent a little energy to Logan’s heart. You might have a heightened awareness of his heart going forward, but you’re a 3, so it shouldn’t be too much to handle. Blood can create a link between two hearts, though the intensity varies based on a number of factors, including,” he glares, “preparation.”

Brenden’s always felt a little weird about being so much more sensitive than most other hockey players, but it seems like Logan might need someone around to pay attention. He wouldn’t be mad if he could stop Cooch from falling apart ever again.

Frankie continues sternly, “Do not ever do this unsupervised again, or I’ll personally put you in a no-contact jersey for the rest of time. If anything unusual happens with the scar, call me. It might be a sign of something seriously wrong with you, or with Logan.”

Brenden nods. He won’t jeopardize his ice time or Logan’s life, though the latter is definitely a higher priority. Frankie pulls something shiny out of his pocket and ushers Brenden to sit on the couch. He talks him through taping his shard and then stays a little longer to explain the whole process to him and satisfy Brenden’s curiosity. 

He won’t let Brenden give his piece back until Logan’s more stable. Brenden was already more sensitive to other people’s hearts and Frankie’s worried the blood binding might open Brenden up to taking on too much of Logan’s heartbreak. Logan’s not in a place to help keep anyone else safe.

*******

Brenden gets lunch with Middsy and Simmer over the brief break. Middsy recommends some cutesy bistro he likes and they sit out on the patio. The food is pretty decent, though Brenden wishes the portions were bigger. He’s gonna have to eat a snack whenever he gets home.

It’s pretty relaxed and none of them have complaints about the California sunshine. 

He’s leaning back in his chair, watching Middsy argue with Simmer about the math on tipping when he realizes he hasn’t seen Martin all break. Even before that, Martin hasn’t really come out with them a lot. He usually remembers to ask, since they carpool, but he hasn’t heard his teammates try to drag Martin out in a while. 

It’s hard, between Martin doing his best Invisible Man impersonation and Martin being sullen company. Still, it’s not buddies to stop talking to a guy because he’s bummed out about a shitty season. Or because you’re bummed out about a shitty season.

Brenden doesn’t think they’ve all forgotten Martin, but perhaps it’s easier for them to ignore what’s been happening as they tend to their own heartaches. He’ll make them remember, remind them how much love and respect Martin has earned as their teammate and friend.

*******

Brenden does his level best to keep his composure when he sees Logan’s heart. It’s thoroughly surrounded by a cage of metal, yet it looks dangerously fragile. 

It’s awe-inspiring to hold it, to feel the way his piece marries the others. It’s not hard to keep it steady for Logan, not when it draws all his focus, begs to soothed. Brenden can feel the relief when Logan’s done and it gives him a strange confidence.

“Can I have a minute with your heart?” Brenden knows that it’s a strange request, but he has something he needs to try.

Logan eyes him and then nods. Brenden doesn’t wait for him to change his mind, just in case. He steps out of earshot, closing the back door behind himself quietly. He sits on one of the lounge chairs and takes a deep breath.

He looks at the heart in the afternoon sunshine, cataloging the bright sparkle of Logan’s original heart under the duller shimmer of the solder holding it all together.

“I know this is unusual,” he says, awkward. The heart obviously has no response. “But I had to try and tell you anyway. I’m really mad at you for not saying anything earlier.” He breathes heavily. “Any one of us would have tried to help. I don’t know what you were thinking! It was reckless and stupid and you could have fucking died!” His voice cracks as he repeats, “You could have died. I don’t know what we’d do.” 

He sighs and collects himself, pressing Logan’s heart to his forehead. “We love you so much. You have to be more careful. You have to take care of yourself.” 

The heart thrums faintly, a parallel tingle in his scarred palm, and Brenden almost drops it in surprise. He taps it with one forefinger. “You’re gonna be okay,” he promises. “We’re gonna make sure you’re okay.”

There’s a resonant sense of peace and that’s about as much as Brenden can do. He’s registered as a 3 and he’s done the intro seminars, but he’s reached his limits today. 

It will be enough. He’s also got a plan for reminding Logan that he has friends who give a shit. Not everything is magic. Sometimes basic human decency goes an awfully long way.

*******

Martin’s in net for once. Brenden whoops when they announce the lineup, chucks a ball of stick tape at Martin playfully. Martin bats it away, shifting with nervous energy. 

Brenden hassles him before the game, bumps him and crowds him, until Martin loosens up a little. “Let’s fucking go, Jonesy!”

“Fuck off, Dilly.” Martin smiles a rare smile and shoves him into Goody who’s also bouncing around. 

The boys are going, moving well. Jonesy scuffs up his crease, wiggles to recalibrate his brain, and settles in. He’s ready.

They lose.

Martin’s post-game is unusually terse. He doesn’t speak to the media much anymore, a small blessing in a cursed season. But on a night with a rare start, he can’t avoid it. They ask stupid questions, as they always do, but he doesn’t brush them off. His eyes are flinty and his voice is dead flat. 

Martin’s never been one to throw questions back in a reporter’s face, but he answers the bare minimum and then walks away without a glance backwards.

*******

Brenden watches Martin on the bench sometimes. He’s stopped tracking the puck, staring straight ahead like he’ll find his reflection in the penalty box glass.

Erik says something, annoyed at a ref, and waits for Martin to say something back. He sits like stone, doesn’t even blink. Erik moves on, asking Eddie a question, but Brenden doesn’t stop looking. Martin doesn’t shift at all until the buzzer, at which time he stands, pivots, and walks away. It’s mechanical, automatic, cold.

He’s no better in the room, sunk into his stall like he intends to become part of the architecture. They’re tied, so Brenden has to listen to about four different people tell him how to do his job while going through his intermission routine. It leaves no time to drag Martin into a hallway and ask him what’s going on, but he does try to send Jumbo in his direction. Jumbo has reached the blessed age where he doesn’t need to take input from people if he doesn’t want to.

After the game, a lot of the guys are going out, but Brenden begs off. He’s too old and too worn out to celebrate squeaking through in the third. 

Brenden’s showered and ready to go, but Martin’s nowhere to be found. He’s fucking exhausted and he wants to go home, so he goes looking. He makes it through every possible cool-down area and even checks a broom closet before he finds a trainer who says that Martin might still be on the ice. Brenden knows sometimes guys stay out and do another lap or test skates after games, but Martin’s never been one of them. Still, he’s run out of other places to find him.

He heads towards the tunnel, feeling his hip ache slightly from the fall he took in the third. He can hear faint noises from the practically empty arena. At this point, the only people in the stands are a couple of janitors in the nosebleeds, cleaning spilled popcorn or sticky beer stains.

He makes it to the edge of the rink before he sees Martin at the other end. He leans against the stair railing at his side, the metal cool against his hand. He watches Martin practice and doesn’t announce himself, curious.

Martin’s alone in the crease, moving sharply. He pushes from post to post, sprays of snow settling at his feet. He’s performing for no audience, starkly alone on the ice. He holds his stick confidently as he tosses something from his glove hand in a slow arc. He catches the falling sparkle on the paddle of his stick, flips it twice and catches it with his glove. 

Brenden realizes with dawning horror that Martin is playing with his own heart. It’s suicidally reckless.

He clenches his hands on the railing, imagines that he can feel it buckling under his convulsive grip. He can’t call out to Martin, can’t make a sound. If he startled Martin into dropping his heart, he’d never forgive himself. He breathes shallowly, feeling dizzy with fear.

He manages to back into the tunnel silently, shaking. Bile rises in his throat, but he chokes it down. He stumbles to the locker room, sick in the depths of his soul. 

He sits there, blood rushing in his ears. How often has Martin been so careless? Why didn’t Brenden see it sooner?

Martin comes back eventually, undresses like nothing’s wrong. Brenden manages to follow him to the car, fumbles with the keys until he unlocks the trunk. He stays there for a moment, staring down at his bag while Martin hops into the passenger seat.

He drives home silently, grateful that the radio was already on from the morning commute. He parks by the curb so Martin can get out. Martin goes to take off his seatbelt and Brenden catches his wrist. He didn’t have a plan, doesn’t know what to say. He can feel Martin’s heart like it’s under his fingers; he wants to pull away, afraid to get too close in case it carves him open with its jagged edges.

Martin tilts his head, puts his hand over Brenden’s, and asks hesitantly, “Are you okay?”

Brenden nods stupidly, barely able to hear over the grinding noise of Martin’s heart. “Are you?”

Martin looks down at where they’re connected. “I’m okay.” He tugs his way out of Brenden’s grasp and gets out of the car. Brenden sits there for too long, unable to speak or move. It takes a monumental act of willpower to put the car into drive and leave.

He leaves his gear in the car and goes inside, haunted by the shrill sound of Martin’s heart screaming for relief. He sits on the couch, dazed. His head feels like it’s going to explode, so he lies down, shuts out the light and the sound. Face pressed into the couch cushions, he sleeps. 

His dreams slide and shift, flickering past. He can’t hold on to any image for more than a moment, grasping as they slip through his hands so swiftly.

_ He’s sledding downhill too fast, and he doesn’t know how to steer.  _

_ He’s kneeling on the ice, collecting translucent shards that are nearly invisible against the blue paint. _

_ He’s run into the boards and he doesn’t know if the resounding noise is his helmet cracking or his skull. _

_ He’s kneeling over Martin’s body, but Martin is sinking through the ice, motionless. _

_ He’s watching the sun set and he’s bleeding onto his fragment of Logan’s heart. _

_ He’s pouring his blood into the cracks in Martin’s heart and praying it will be enough. _

_ He’s sledding downhill and the tree is approaching, so dark and firm, and he cannot look away. _

He wakes up suddenly, falling onto the floor as he wrenches himself back instinctively. It knocks the wind out of him and he bangs his elbow hard. He lies there for a moment, looking at the dusty underside of his couch.

His heart is still pounding as he drags himself up to his knees. He knows what he’s going to do. He’s wasted too much time hoping, done too little of substance. 

He yanks open his kitchen drawer for miscellaneous things, tosses aside takeout menus and rubber bands and a spare phone charger. He finds the emergency key at the back, taped to the original post-it. He pockets it, grabs his keys, and runs for his car.

*******

Brenden is scared. He’s been scared for a while and he’s chosen the easy way out too often. He opens his door and steps into the rain, slides across the wet grass to Martin’s door.

He knocks, but there’s no answer. He knocks again, bouncing up and down on his toes. He waits for a breath, then another, then slides his key into the lock. The deadbolt sounds deafening as it unlocks.

He opens the door carefully, sees Martin’s gear bag on the floor in the foyer. He takes off his wet sweatshirt, leaves it hanging on the doorknob. He kicks off his shoes. Martin’s car keys are on the hook on the wall, around eye-level.

Brenden walks through each room slowly, repressing the urge to run. Martin’s not in the kitchen or the living room.

Brenden finds him in bed, staring at the ceiling. He’s so still, but Brenden can see his ribs expand with each slow breath. Martin’s eyes cut to him as he enters, but they don’t linger. 

Brenden’s done waiting, done hoping things will change. He strides decisively across the floor and sits on the bed by Martin’s hip. 

Martin glances at him again, watching the afternoon shadows fall across his face. 

“You’re not okay.” Brenden says it with great certainty. He can’t push away the fear that this conversation is too late.

“No.” Martin rolls away from the beam of sunlight falling across his bed, turns his back on Brenden. 

Brenden stands, watches Martin’s shoulders tense like he thinks this is Brenden giving up again. Brenden flips up the edge of the comforter and slides into bed. He doesn’t touch Martin, unsure if he can say what must be said if he can feel Martin’s heart shifting like the San Andreas fault. As it is, the words pile up in his throat, suffocating him.

They lie there together in silence. The sunlight fades, the room cools, and still they do not move.

Martin breaks the silence first, sighing wearily.“Why are you here?”

“I saw you today. On the ice.” Martin doesn’t respond. “What were you doing?” 

“Practicing.” Martin’s not going to give an inch, the long line of his back stiff as steel.

“With your heart?” Brenden pleads with him silently, praying he can easily explain it all away.

“I wanted it to matter.” Martin’s voice dies and he makes a horrible choked noise. Brenden rolls over, pulls Martin to him swiftly, unable to leave him alone on an island of his own making. “I thought that if it mattered, I could try harder. I could be better.”

Brenden holds him as he shakes. He can’t see Martin’s face, but he can feel his heart, see the deep cracks. He’s almost dizzy with it, barely able to distinguish between his fear and Martin’s.

“They say,” Martin starts, swallowing hard, “they say I don’t put in the effort. I’m not motivated enough.”

“This isn’t the solution,” Brenden says, fighting back tears of his own. He lets Martin turn in his arms, but keeps him close. He cups Martin’s face in one hand and presses their foreheads together, closing his eyes. “If you break your heart, you’ll break mine too.” 

“I don’t know what to do,” Martin admits, voice very small. “I think...I think I need help.” Martin’s heart is thrashing like a fish on dry land, gasping for air. 

“Okay.” His best friend would rather shatter his own heart than lose another game; something needs to be done and whatever that something is, Brenden will do it. He’d give him the world. “I’m always here for help. You have to talk to Frankie for sure. I’d fix your heart all by myself if I could, but I just don’t have the natural talent.” Until this moment, he’s never wished he could feel more, never wanted to be able to hold someone’s heart in the palm of his hand and command it. “I can stand behind you and make mean faces at him when he’s rude though.”

Martin laughs wetly at that, a little puff of breath against Brenden’s collarbones. Brenden can feel his heart subside, easing softly. Brenden keeps his hands gentle and keeps Martin securely cradled in his arms.

He cups the back of Martin’s head with one hand, playing with his messy cowlick. “But I don’t think Frankie’s the only person you need to see.”

Martin doesn’t say anything, just clutches at Brenden’s t-shirt. The closer Martin gets, the louder Brenden can feel his heart calling for help. At the same time, Martin’s proximity also seems to decrease the desperation of that cry. 

“You’re not okay.”

Martin shakes his head, careful not to dislodge Brenden’s hand. 

“So we’ll find someone who can help with that too. I can ask around and see if anyone knows a sports psychologist. You don’t have to tell anyone, but I can ask for you.”

Martin stays silent, but he nods.

“And,” Brenden hesitates, going out on a ledge. “I could stay here until you’re better. You don’t have to be alone.” It doesn’t matter if being this close to Martin’s pain makes him want to give Martin his own heart in replacement. 

“What if,” Martin whispers, “I’m never good enough again? What if I’m not even good enough to be traded and they buy me out and I never play again?”

“You’ll still be my best friend. You’re always good enough for me.”

Martin shudders at that, lets the tears fall unfettered. Brenden allows him to soak his shirt with tears, holding him through it.

The words come to him easily, like he can see them welling up through the chasms in Martin’s heart. “You’re enough. You are always enough.”

**Author's Note:**

> I obviously can't personally tell Martin Jones that he is enough, but I sure fucking want to!
> 
> You guys were all so lovely to like and comment on the first installation, which is why this exists at all. Thank you for your kind words and enthusiasm. It means the world to me. <3
> 
> I know this had a bit of a different tone, but I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless. If you notice any weird capitalization or absent punctuation, please let me know. Google Docs and I had a knock-down, drag-out fight and I'm still not sure who won.


End file.
